Filthy Foreign Exchange(25)

I’m not blind, nor too proud to admit he’s not hard to look at.

“Good afternoon, Love.” He grins, leaning a shoulder against the house while crossing one ankle over the other. “Practice go well?”

“It did, thanks for asking.” I step past him.

“Are you free to join me for today’s football game, then? I know how much we both enjoyed the one last night.” He winks. “Why not do it again?”

I feel my brows reach for my hairline. “They’re doing it again? Already? Why?” I take a seat on the porch swing, my legs feeling rubbery after being worked all morning.

“My understanding is that today it’s my uni’s team playing, so a different spectacle altogether.”

Apparently the college plays on Saturdays. It’s still a hell no.

I rest my head against the swing chain. “Kingston, I tend not to do things I don’t enjoy.”

“I suspect you also tend not to do things you would enjoy, very much.” His grin takes on a flirtatious quality that sends tingles—not nearly as unfamiliar as they used to be—racing across my skin. “Join me, please?”

I’m already shaking my head adamantly. “No. I need to get back to practicing after I eat. You know we have a show tomorrow. I have to be fully prepared.”

He sits beside me on the swing. “No, I wasn’t aware there was a show tomorrow. What does that mean, exactly?”

His interest seems genuine, so I explain.

“In the pavilion.” I point, and refrain from adding a “circus-tent” jab since we’re being serious. “We host performances every other Sunday. I’m sure my parents told you. People in town pay to watch. And with Sebastian gone and Savannah somewhat lacking in commitment, I’m going to be doing one of my solo routines, so I need to make sure I’m not rusty.”

There’s a long pause before he responds.

“I truly admire your dedication, Echo. I look forward to watching you tomorrow.”

He stands, offering his hand to help me do the same.

“Are you headed out now?” I ask.

“Yes. I’m meeting some blokes before the game.”

I can’t help my grin. “Ah, to do some off-roading?”

“No.” He smiles, then dips his head, lifting my hand he’s still holding to place a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. Again. “The first time I do that, it will be with you.”

~~~~~

I peek out from behind the blue velvet curtain and swallow down my jagged nerves. The chattering crowd for today’s show is huge and composed mostly, it appears, of people my age.

And I know why. Much like everywhere he goes, nearly every girl in town has come not to see the show, but rather Kingston Hawthorne—causing the other guys in town to follow the girls, creating a coed crowd made up of the Kelly Springs young-adult masses. I’d be angry that my family’s talent and hard work has been turned into a Match.com mixer if it wasn’t for the fact that they each bought a ticket, which is income for my family. I’ll take it.

And Kingston’s shower message this morning—Don’t break a leg, but good luck—was cute enough to have me in a great mood.

As the act before me finishes, I take a deep, calming breath and check my costume one last time. It’s a new number my mom created for me, whose fabric I now find perfectly flowing.

I nod to my father to cue the music and raise my right arm to signal Clay, in the rafters above the stage, to lower the aerial hoop.

Donned all in white, I take pride in the gasps I hear from the audience as the lighting brightens, showcasing me, now in place. I tap the outside of the hoop with my ankle to send it spinning while I flip, twirl, and dance in and with the apparatus to “Completely” by Jennifer Day. I like to consider this one of my most elegant routines—and as I lock eyes with Kingston, seated in the front row, something in the way he watches me makes me think he might agree.

Our gazes continue to seek each other out each time I face the crowd, until the final notes of the song conclude my performance and the lights dim to conceal my departure from the stage. Raucous applause erupts, and I positively beam with gratification. It’s exhilarating and powerful, and with my adrenaline rushing, I feel nearly euphoric.

I’m reeling in my high as I make my way backstage, not paying attention, and walk right into…Kingston. Man, he moves quick.

“Well done,” he compliments genuinely yet simply, totally contrasting the complex darkness in his eyes.

My already-racing heart speeds up, no longer the result of my act, or the applause. It’s now solely because of the further praise he holds prisoner through translucent bars. I can’t be imagining the sheen of adoration in his rapt stare. Dare I say he seems almost mesmerized?

“I thought you might need these.”

He hands me a bottle of water, then lifts a small towel with his other hand and begins to dab at my dewy skin. His touch is gentle as it skims down my neck, across my shoulders, and over the top of my chest that’s left uncovered by my costume.

“Better?” he asks huskily, before quickly clearing his throat.

“Yes, thank you,” I whisper. I don’t ask his thoughts on my performance. I already know.

And much like a huge zit on yearbook-picture day, Clay shows up to ruin the moment—one unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.